The Secret to Falling in Love. Victoria Cooke

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СКАЧАТЬ niggling frustration to the darkest depths of my brain.

      ‘That’s nice, love,’ she muttered, heading to the kitchen. I noticed that she was carrying a brown paper bag from Patisserie Valerie, and a pang of guilt hit me. It was my favourite place to lunch, and Mum had remembered.

      ‘Ooh, my favourite. Thanks, Mum.’ My voice cracked.

      ‘Happy birthday, love.’ My dad walked in carrying several bags, all brightly coloured and oozing with an indiscreet air of ‘generic female birthday gift’.

      I followed them into the kitchen. Mum was already busying herself putting out some homemade Moroccan lamb sandwiches; they had been cut into triangles, just how I liked them. I stood for a moment, watching Mum cheerfully taking pride in her platter, arranging the triangles neatly and adding a salad garnish.

      I hadn’t noticed before how much she had aged recently. The lines on her forehead had deepened, along with her crow’s feet and the lines around her mouth – a telltale sign of years of laughter. The afterthought makes the corners of my mouth turn up into a small smile. Despite my grumblings, she had always been so full of merriment and now wore the evidence proudly. I could still see her younger self beneath her creases; her bright cornflower-blue eyes a window to her youth.

      People had always said we looked alike, but I’d never seen it. The thought had horrified me when I was younger, but at that moment, I suddenly saw myself – it was those eyes. Seeing myself like that scared me. Mum had Dad. Who would I have?

      My thoughts were interrupted by the crumpling sound of a paper bag. I glanced down and saw the delicious selection of treats that Mum had brought, which cheered me up somewhat. A scrumptious-looking chocolate éclair filled with whirls of cream; an exotic fruit tart, piled high with sumptuous strawberries, juicy peach and star fruit, all topped with bright red cranberries; and finally, my favourite: a deep-filled millefeuille topped with decorated fondant icing. A single golden candle was placed in the centre of the latter.

      Mum spotted me staring (okay, practically drooling). ‘I got your favourite, love, for your birthday. I thought you were a bit old for a big cake now.’ I appreciated it, though I didn’t think I’d had a ‘big’ birthday cake since my twenty-first.

      We took our seats around my small kitchen table, and we chatted. My dad had taken up squash and my mum had joined a book club at the library. I was glad to hear that they were getting out and doing something with their retirement years. It was nice to just talk in such an adult, carefree way, with none of the parental bullshit that normally cropped up, like: ‘Have you sorted out your contents insurance yet?’

      Just as I was devouring the last messy mouthful of my millefeuille – I was on the hunt for a more dignified way to eat them – the dreaded question came, fist-punching frustration back into my chest with a G-force to rival Rita at Alton Towers. ‘So, have you been courting anyone?’ Mum adopted a rather silvery tone especially for this question, a paltry attempt at trying to conceal her desperation for an answer.

      My face twisted involuntarily, and I wiped my sticky hands on a napkin as a groan escaped me.

      ‘Look, Melissa, you’re a pretty girl, but you aren’t getting any younger. I can see a frown line as we speak, and you aren’t even frowning.’

      I wasn’t frowning because my eyes were burning with rage and embarrassment. I couldn’t even speak.

      ‘I know you’d love children like your sister.’ She prodded the table with her finger whilst I sat in exasperated frustration – for the record, by that point I was frowning. ‘Dr Phelps has been on the TV this week warning women to conceive before they’re thirty! Apparently your chances drop quite rapidly after that, and it’s been half a decade since you turned thirty. By my calculations . . . thirty-five now, say six months to meet someone . . .’

      She glanced at Dad, who was pretending to study the intricacies of my plain white coffee mug. ‘Maybe even a year to meet someone, a year of courting before a proposal at least, eighteen months to plan a proper wedding, and then a year of marriage before even trying to conceive, you’re going to be . . .’ There was a pause as she finished wittering and ran her mental calculations. Her face paled, so I put her out of her misery.

      ‘Old. I will be old!’ I cut in, tightly. Of course I’d already run those calculations myself, though I generally used a six-month figure to actually meet someone. I knew that I’d be old; I just didn’t need reminding, especially by my mother, who was supposed to love me unconditionally and not judge me.

      There was short silence before she continued. She reached her hand across to mine. ‘I’m sorry, love. I just don’t want you to be . . . well, disappointed if you don’t get what you want.’ She softened her tone, the same soft tone she’d used when I was a poorly child. ‘Your dad and I, we’ve had such a wonderful marriage.’ Dad raised his eyebrow in mini protest but ensured that only I saw. I winked back. I knew he was joking, but Mum would’ve held a seven-day grudge if she’d caught him.

      ‘I know. For your information, I actually went on a date on Thursday with a lovely man.’ As soon as I said it I regretted it; I knew that a barrage of questions would ensue.

      ‘Oh that’s wonderful news, love! Tell me what he’s like. Will you be seeing him again?’ She struggled to conceal the eagerness in her voice and even did a mini clap, but this I could deal with, since it was nice that she was actually listening to me. I was just glad she didn’t ask if she needed a new hat for the wedding or if my widowed Uncle Bernard could bring a plus-one.

      ‘He was nice, pleasant enough, but I doubt I’ll see him again. I just thought you’d like to know that I am not avoiding men. I just want to meet the right one for me.’ My skin prickled uncomfortably; I hated having these conversations with my parents, but if divulging details helped to get me through the conversation quicker, then I was all in. Well, nearly all in – certain details were better left private.

      ‘Okay, well that’s good news . . . You know, Jean next door has a son who is just going through a divorce. A nice young man, he is. I’ve not asked Jean why he’s getting a divorce yet, but I’m sure she said something about an affair on his wife’s part. Luckily there are no children involved – break-ups can be so hard for kiddies. No doubt he’ll be looking for female companionship soon.’

      Mum’s attempt at sounding nonchalant failed miserably. Her eyes glowed with eagerness, and my cheeks start to burn; I could feel the warm pink searing through my earlier, largely abandoned, attempt at contouring. The notion that my mother, thinking I was such a hopeless lost cause, felt the need to set me up with her neighbours’ divorcee son was, quite frankly, horrifying.

      ‘Mel, love, don’t you want to open your presents?’ my dad cut in before I had a chance to answer. Thank goodness. I wasn’t sure if he was being insightful, or if he had just got bored with the din of female gabble; either way I was relieved.

      The boyfriend conversation was soon forgotten – for the moment, at least – as I opened floral gift bags and unwrapped delicate pink tissue paper to reveal some truly wonderful presents. Mum and Dad had booked me a spa day, which couldn’t have come at a better time. My merriment was subdued when my mum handed me a card from my gran. A tear pricked my eyes. ‘You know how organised your gran was. She’d got this in November.’ Mum smiled; tears were pooling in her eyes too.

      I opened the card, and in it was a gift card for Selfridges. She knew me so well. Mum patted my hand.

      ‘She was organised. It’s perfect,’ I said, breathing in СКАЧАТЬ